‘Big one,’ he whispered. Either Charles was getting used to the accent or it was clearer close to.
‘Where?’
‘Directly under that rock. Have a look. But be quiet and don’t move suddenly.’
Charles eased himself down to a kneeling position and, with his hands gripping the slimy edge of the pool, moved his head slowly out over the water.
At that moment his left hand slipped. It saved his life. As his body lurched sideways, he saw the flash of the brass head of Tam’s Priest as it came down. The blow aimed to the skull landed with agonising force on Charles’ shoulder.
The shock of the attack stunned him even more than its violence. For a moment he lay there, the rocks hard under his back, his hair soaked with spray from the pounding water just below. Then he saw Tam advancing towards him with the Priest again upraised.
The gamekeeper must have thought he had knocked his victim out; he was unprepared for the kick in the stomach that Charles managed from his prone position. Tam staggered back clutching himself, reeled for a moment at the water’s edge, then fell safely on to the rocks.
Charles had one aim, which was to get the hell out of the place. Winding his assailant had given him the opportunity. He scrambled manically over the slimy rocks, grabbing at tussocks and branches to heave himself up the gradient. His right arm screeched with pain like a gear lever in a broken gearbox. But he was getting away.
He turned for a moment. Tam was standing now, but Charles had the start. Then he saw something whip out and uncoil from the gamekeeper’s hand. As the treble hooks bit into his leg and he felt the inexorable pull down towards the boiling cauldron below, Charles knew it was the ripper.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
O’er all there hung a shadow and a fear;
A sense of mystery the spirit daunted,
And said, as plain as whisper in the ear,
The place is Haunted!
In the train from Glasgow to Edinburgh Charles said a little prayer of thanks, and reflected how frustrating it must be for God only to be in demand in times of danger, like a brilliant tap-dancer waiting for tap-dancing to come back into fashion. Still, God had saved his life and Charles Paris was suitably grateful.
There was no other explanation than divine intervention. The pain from his shoulder and the long furrows gouged in his left leg made the scene hard to forget. He could see the bank slipping past him as he was dragged painfully down to the water. He could feel the kick in the stomach with which Tam had immobilised him, and see the Priest again raised for a blow that was not going to miss.
And then, as Charles closed his eyes and vainly attempted to put his mental affairs in order, the threat vanished. Almost literally. The blow seemed a long time coming, so he crept one eye open. And Tam had disappeared.
The gamekeeper’s foot must have slipped on the rocks and, caught off balance, he had fallen into the water. The force of the stream had swept him over the ledge of one pool and into the next, where he floated round like a giant face-cloth with a bubble of air caught in it.
Charles had tried to disengage the ripper from his leg, but the pain was too great, so he used a long stick to guide the body to the water’s edge. Then, using both arms (though the right one felt as if it was being severed from his torso with a blow lamp), he had heaved the sodden mass on to the bank.
To his amazement, he found that Tam was still alive, unconscious, but with a strong heartbeat and pulse. Rediscovering a scrap of knowledge that had lain dormant since some aunt had given him a Boy Scout diary in his teens, Charles turned the body over and, after working the shoulders for a few minutes, was rewarded by a flow of water from the injured man’s mouth. He then reckoned it was safe to leave Tam there; there was no danger of either death or escape. The body was propped up against a mossy bank and Charles started his painful course back to the hotel.
Mr Parker took control with instant efficiency. Suddenly Clachenmore did not seem so isolated. A doctor was summoned and a party of local forestry workers who were in the bar went off to fetch Tam.
The doctor did not comment on the story of two men slipping on the bank, Tam falling into the water and Charles getting tangled in the hooks and banging his shoulder on a rock; he just got on with the job. Removing the barbs of the hooks was the worst bit, but he was used to it. He explained that a pair of pliers was an essential part of a doctor’s equipment in that area, though most of the hooks he came across tended to be lodged in the cheeks of people walking behind over-enthusiastic fly-fishermen. Treble hooks, he admitted, were trickier, but the principle was the same-push the hook through until its barb stood clear of the flesh, snip it off with the pliers, and then work the remains of the hook out. While this excruciating operation was conducted, Charles made a rash vow that he would give up fishing; he had never thought what it felt like for the fish before.
In spite of the pain they caused, the scrapes on his leg were not deep. The highest one needed a couple of stitches, but the others were just cleaned and dressed. The shoulder presented even less problem. There was nothing broken, just severe bruising. The doctor strapped it into a sort of sling and went to tend the still- unconscious Tam, who had just been brought back.
Charles was patched up in time for lunch. Frances sat opposite him, looking anxious, but respecting his promise to explain everything in detail when it was over. There was an atmosphere of shock in the dining-room. Even Mr Pilch was subdued and did not get far pontificating to his children on Stone Age relics in Argyll.
At two thirty the taxi had arrived and, against doctor’s orders and Frances’ advice, Charles had started the journey to Edinburgh. Which was why he was sitting in the train, thanking God and asking God if He could see fit to spare a little more protection for the confrontation to come.
Stella Galpin-Lord had recommended Clachenmore. She knew Tam. By the attempt on Charles’ life, she had nailed her colours to the mast, but it was a mast that only Charles Paris could see, and she thought Charles Paris was dead. His best weapon was going to be surprise.
She did look surprised to see him when he found her at the Masonic Hall. She had just given her nightly pep- talk to the cast of A Midsummer Night’s Dream (which now only had three more revisualised performances to run; then in the third week of the Festival Mary, Queen of Sots took over). After Clachenmore Charles found it strange to think in terms of dates again. He reminded himself that it was now Thursday 29th August.
‘Stella. I’d like to talk.’
‘Certainly. I must say, this is a surprise. I thought we’d seen the last of you when you went to Clachenmore.’
‘Yes,’ he said grimly.
‘Didn’t you like it there?’
‘There were… things I didn’t like.’
They went to the pub near the Hall where they had last met. She had another of her vodka and Camparis; he had a large Bell’s. The pain from his patched-up wounds made concentration difficult, but he did not intend to talk for long. Stella raised her glass. ‘Well, this is an unexpected pleasure.’
‘I want to talk about Willy Mariello.’
The brusque statement took her completely off her guard. She blushed under her make-up, and lowered the glass as if she were afraid she might drop it. ‘Willy Mariello?’ she echoed stupidly. ‘But he’s dead.’
‘Yes. As you well know, he’s dead.’ She mouthed at him, unable to form words. ‘And, Stella, I think his death may have something to do with what he was doing in the few days before he died.’
‘It was an accident,’ she croaked. ‘It couldn’t have been anything to do with-’
‘Couldn’t it? Let’s just suppose for a moment it could. I have become very interested in what Willy was doing
